Curse of the Mommy, Part 2

Okay, so here's the thing. I hate cooking dinner. I feel guilty even admitting it but it's true. I realize that being an at-home mom with an adorable husband and precious, numerous offspring (all hungry) I am naturally in the perfect position to provide prompt and nutritious meals--preferably edible--on a nightly basis. But seriously, that is the one part of the "Job of Motherhood" that I hate. That and you know, the bathrooms.

I had no idea when I first got married that cooking was going to be such a problem for me, which is funny because growing up I watched my frustrated mother wrangle her way through many a meal (see last blog entry), so you think I might have had a clue. But no. In my enthusiastic naivete, I assumed that the worst thing that could happen would be that I would make such incredibly delicious meals that we would all plump up like Ball Park franks. I shouldn't have worried though. As it turns out my cooking stinks--but the pregnancies more than make up the difference!

Well, my first problem with "Dinner" as a concept is that it is relentless. Just like doing the laundry or taking a shower, no matter how brilliantly you did it yesterday, here they are, the husband, the children--the lot of them--staring you intently in the face and asking you that most dreaded question "What are we having for dinner?".

My mother's response to this question was always "Something with Hamburger". (She and Carol Brady were definitely in agreement on how to feed a half dozen children.) Ah, "Something with Hamburger" really brings back some memories. This phrase was sure to send us Pedersen children slunking away, our little heads hung low as we contemplated our dinner fate. Would it be Tater tot Surprise or perhaps Minestrone Bake? Perchance a hearty plate of ground beef/tomato sauce (V-8 Juice)/elbow macaroni? Did it really even matter? Whatever it was, it was always "Something with Hamburger", and it was usually crunchy hamburger at that.

Unlike my mother, whose signature dish was "blackened dinner", I don't actually have a food-burning problem, (although I'm sure our good friend and recent house guest John could make some compelling arguments to the contrary) but rather I have a not-good-at-cooking-in-general problem, which is much worse. No matter how hard I try to whip up Something Delicious, I usually end up with just Something. Period. And that is the part that really hurts. Just like when you are dieting and you feel like the actual hunger pangs you are experiencing should be burning calories the way they are burning out the lining of your stomach, so 1 1/2 hours slaving away in the kitchen should most certainly produce a dinner worthy of Yum instead of Hmmm. (I am putting it nicely with the Hmmm description; Josie likes to enter the kitchen, wrinkle up her face and ask "What is that smell?". Charming girl, that Jos.) As I see it, I have several really compelling reasons why my dinners are usually late, don't taste so super-terrific and come with a generous side dish of passive-aggression. Here are my dinner-making complaints, in their proper chronological order:

• Thinking of dinner--Okay, thinking of dinner is definitely my worst thing. Because, what in the heck am I going to feed these people? This one sounds easy, but trust me--it is probably the hardest part. Why, you ask? Because my children refuse to cooperate. Believe me when I say that nothing I can cook will appeal to everyone. I don't think even Julia Child herself could please these kids (the little so-and-so's). Behold:

Sid only likes meat and vegetables. No breads, no sauces, no crunchy toppings. And just forget about the usual kid foods like chicken nuggets, fish sticks, tater tots, etc. Don't insult the boy.

Calvin only eats the bread, sauces and toppings. No vegetables of any kind or color. His tastes are exactly the opposite from Sid's, so at least we have a balancing yin/yang thing happening on their side of the table.


Josie hates everything. I cannot stress this enough, and neither can she. Digression: Late at night as she lays in bed and I come in to give her a hug goodnight, she will reach her arms up around my neck in a rare moment of tenderness, and in a sweet, quiet almost-asleep murmur she will often say "Mom, you know I hate everything." To which I always reassuringly respond, "Yes Honey, I know". However, she will consent to eat things that are fried (she frequently requests "greasy food") and oddly enough adores broccoli--the one vegetable that Sid won't eat. Hates pizza.


Jon only likes chicken "with the bones" (no nuggets) and looooves mashed potatoes, just no gravy! Oh, and he can't eat anything spicy, even if it is only spicy like, say, Hamburger Helper. (Yes, I make Hamburger Helper, just not very well. Don't judge me.)


Tommy doesn't really want dinner; just a thin layer of it clinging to the plate to wear on his head is plenty for him. The rest is purely decorative in purpose, and he spends dinner time festooning the surplus around the tray and floor in artistic wads that he hopes to save for later.

• Making the dinner. This one I swear always turns into some Olympic multi-sport event, like a cooking decathlon. The usual recipe goes like this: Watch 4 children outside, scattered about the front yard, back yard and neighborhood, as they engage in blood sports with the locals. Keep all doors locked (to keep Baby inside). Answer the door at least 7 times, each time telling children that I am busy cooking and can't keep coming to the door to answer all their burning (random) questions regarding Aliens/What to expect from grasshoppers once their legs have been removed/and when we can hope Dad will show up. At the same time keep "Frustrated, Wants-to-be-Outside Baby" inside, ideally watching some quiet, culturally enriching video (Ha!). Less than ideal but far more likely is Baby drawing his own bath upstairs (fully clothed, squeezing out the shampoo) or crying underfoot, grabbing a pant leg until with some sort of baby gorilla grip manages to pants me in the kitchen. I have two choices with Tommy. Either I let him cry during meal preparation so he will "eat" with the rest of us during dinner or put him in the high chair and feed him while I cook, so that he can cry later as we all try to eat. There WILL be crying either way, and whatever dinner food stuffs I give him will be promptly rejected and tossed to the floor as all he will eat is crackers and plain toasted Eggo Waffles. The child is carbing up for some big event, apparently.

• Liking the dinner I have made. This is the part that really puts my knickers in a twist because--SURPRISE--I don't actually like the dinners that I make. I am probably even more disappointed than my children appear to be as I tuck into the meal that I have just made, because I have invested so much into what I enjoy so little. After all the time and effort spent it just doesn't seem fair that we would probably enjoy cold cereal more. And we often do!

• Cleaning up the dinner. This one is as fun as it sounds, especially when it is directly followed by the best part of all,

• Watching the children (and occasionally Husband!) forage around in the fridge/pantry for more food. This generally happens when the said children/husband stop eating the dinner provided, wander away from the kitchen and return almost immediately to announce that they are still hungry. (Just not for the dinner that is still sitting there on the table.) For me, these are the moments that bring farm words to mind.

So there you have it. Please don't feel too bad for my family, (and please spare me the lecture on the merits of the crock pot) because what I lack in dinner-making initiative, I like to think I make up for in baking know-how (plus I make kick-butt Halloween costumes every year, although technically we don't eat those). And now that it is getting to be Fall.... a girl's fancy naturally turns to chocolate chip pumpkin bread...and possibly a little roasted pork chops, potatoes and gravy too. Whaaat? I never said I COULDN'T cook dinner, just that I hated to.

And my guess is Josie will hate it too.